


sunflower

by inamorromani



Category: Naruto
Genre: ????????????????????????? idk man, Alcohol/Drinking, Gen, M/M, Modern AU, Mostly Fluff, botanist hashirama and salaryman madara!, bottom hashirama nation come and get yall juice, cigarettes/smoking, dont look at me!, i did what i had to do, oh okay i cant censor the e in sex apparently so. THIS IS DEEPLY NSFW.. for izzy standards anyways, some of u are really horny on here. i like to think that i am not and yet here we are, trying 2 cover all me bases here. enjoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23606263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inamorromani/pseuds/inamorromani
Summary: calling it quits now baby i'm a wreck, crash at my place baby you're a wreck
Relationships: Senju Hashirama & Senju Tobirama, Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Madara, Uchiha Izuna & Uchiha Madara
Comments: 20
Kudos: 181





	sunflower

**Author's Note:**

> for my hashi-muse baby.....

At the end of the day, Madara doesn’t think there’s anybody on Earth he’d rather come home to. 

Well- Izuna, maybe, but Izuna was volatile, disorganized; liable to leave trails of costume glitter and silk ribbon wherever he went, like a dancing Samoyed losing its winter coat. And Madara loved him, of course. Madara utterly adored him, but at the same time, Izuna could make it very hard to concentrate, bitching about his shin splints, or how soft his pointe shoes had gotten, turning pirouettes in the living room at ungodly hours of the night and streaking around the house listening to just-a-little-bit-too-loud Vivaldi on their parents old home stereo.

Hashirama was quiet- quiet when it mattered, anyways, something everybody else who had ever met Hashirama seemed to find more than a little surprising. He kept the house clean, kept their plants alive; he was the unflinchingly hopeful sort of person to get excited about finishing a bottle of laundry detergent because that meant he got to open a new one. He was smart, simple- and presently, sitting on the living room floor with his chin in his hands, and his eyes half open. 

He doesn’t stir when Madara comes in, not really, but his eyelids flutter a bit, and he shifts so his arms are folded across his chest, leans back against the couch a little. Madara scoffs. 

He hadn’t had much of a choice but to adjust quickly to Hashirama’s daily routine. After work, he’d fall asleep, usually either at the kitchen table or on the floor next to the couch, and would get his second wind around dinnertime. After that, he was insufferable- he’d run around the house still half-dressed in his work clothes, sloppily folding laundry, checking the pH of all the houseplants’ soil with little paper strips, talking Madara’s ear off about some new initiative at the gardens, or some new strain of fungus threatening some newly endangered species of tree, and oh, how _hard_ Hashirama made it not to listen to him. 

That was what Madara had fallen in love with, after all. He was so deeply passionate about everything that he managed to make even the most uninteresting conversations electrifying, memorable- not to mention the fact that Hashirama was so, _so_ pretty, pretty in a way that commanded the attention of everybody in the room, pretty in the way that Madara’s coworkers liked to make jokes about his trophy husband. 

Ah- that was a part of Hashirama’s daily routine, too. Eye creams, fancy, foaming cleansers, brushing his hair in the mirror over the sink for fifteen minutes every morning while Madara watched, half awake, just waiting for him to finish so he could brush his fucking teeth. At the end of the day, Madara suspects he’d find Hashirama beautiful no matter what. 

He’s especially pretty when he sleeps. 

Madara toes his shoes off, hangs his jacket on the little bronze hook beside the door. He sets his briefcase on the kitchen counter, loosens his tie. In his sleep, Hashirama moans a little, and turns his head to the side, crinkles his nose. Madara passes the half-full cup of coffee on the counter, oversaturated with creamer, Hashirama’s house slippers at the edge of the carpet. He kneels beside him, reaching up to tuck a stray piece of shining, chocolate-brown hair behind his ear. 

“Madara,” Hashirama says simply, still half-awake, “Ah. Madara.” 

“Yeah?” Madara asks, a little bemused. Hashirama crinkles his nose again. 

“ _Ma-da-ra_.” He sounds out each syllable, smiling lightly to himself. 

And Madara doesn’t think very hard about it. He kisses Hashirama’s cheek, down his throat, twirls a length of his beautiful hair around his index finger. Hashirama laughs a little, sounding almost like he’s drunk.

Oh- Madara _loves_ Hashirama drunk, though he’d be damned to admit it. He’s all laughter, all smiles, hands all over Madara’s chest, his back, his lips, and he never gets sick and he never gets hungover. Better yet, he’s quiet, sultry, almost, and so easy to take care of. Drunk Hashirama brushes his teeth thoroughly, and then crawls into bed with Madara and curls up against his chest, only waking him up every hour or so to share some inane piece of animal trivia- _‘Madara, Madara. Did you know it’s only male seahorses that can get pregnant?’_

Hashirama hauls himself into Madara’s lap, reaches up and tucks his hair behind his ear again. He’s barely there- really, Hashirama could be a little spacey- but he’s there enough, eager and lucid and utterly irresistible. Madara lifts the hem of his shirt with his thumb, and Hashirama turns his head to the side, bites his finger. Madara thinks that maybe, Hashirama’s blushing virgin act is his favorite part of their daily routine. 

He kisses the center of his chest, and Hashirama moans shamelessly in response. 

“ _Madara_ -” 

“Hush,” Madara mutters, “There’s a noise ordinance.” 

“You like it,” Hashirama says breathily. He tosses his hair over his shoulder and leans back slightly, bracing his hands on Madara’s knees. 

“I don’t like the neighbors tacking passive aggressive notes on our door telling us to be quiet,” Madara laughs. He rests his hands over Hashirama’s hips, hooking his thumb through one of the belt loops on his jeans, tugging lightly. Hashirama moans again. 

“You animal,” Madara teases, “It’s five in the afternoon.” 

“For _you_ , maybe,” Hashirama grumbles. He raises his hips slightly, hiking his jeans up before settling back into Madara’s lap with a self-satisfied smile. Madara screws his eyes shut. “But I had to wake up at four this morning so I could get to work at five,” Hashirama continues, pushing his fingers beneath the hem of Madara’s dress shirt, “Because I didn’t get any work done last night since _somebody_ lost his reading glasses and made me walk all the way to the pharmacy to buy him a new pair-” he leans forward and presses his lips against the crook of Madara’s neck. Madara disguises a moan by clearing his throat. “And then I got the wrong prescription, _twice_ , and by the time it was all sorted out- well,” Hashirama smiles innocently, “you know.” 

“You’re impossible,” Madara murmurs. 

Hashirama says nothing. Instead, he takes Madara’s face in his hands and kisses him.

  
  
  


Generally, on Saturday mornings, they sleep in. Hashirama wakes up first and puts coffee on, mists his plants, starts on his chores, and then Madara somehow manages to get a hold of his waist and pull him back into bed for another hour or two. 

Hashirama likes Saturday mornings. Saturday mornings mean kissing Madara’s neck, mean Madara arching his back and making tiny, broken noises against his lips- because try as he might, Madara has never been terribly apt at making himself vulnerable. 

There were flashes of vulnerability, of course- quicksilver, passing mentions of his mother, his father, his brothers, evenings where Madara sat very still in their living room, a little less _there_ , a little less _Madara_ than usual. Those evenings were nice too- not Saturday morning nice, usually, but Hashirama liked it when Madara slept on his chest, held him a little tighter than usual. 

He loves Madara- sometimes, he finds it hard to believe there was ever a time in his life where he didn’t. 

It’s Saturday, sometime after midnight, and Hashirama finds Madara doubled over the kitchen sink stifling dry heaves. It’s unpleasant, sure, but not that unusual- Madara smokes too much, especially when he’s stressed, and in the three years they’d been together he’d gotten bronchitis twice. Madara doesn’t bother trying to reassure him at this point. Hashirama retrieves a paper mask from their medicine cabinet, a scarf and a wool jacket from the bedroom closet. He pulls Madara’s hair up- he really does have a lot of it, Hashirama thinks fondly- and tucks the elastic straps of the mask behind his ears, bundles him up like the mother hen he is, and ushers him out the door. 

Hashirama had always been in the habit of taking the train to Tobirama’s apartment instead of going to the urgent care- it was cheaper, markedly more efficient, and it gave him an excuse to see his baby brother. Besides, Hashirama liked taking the trains. That was how he had met Madara, after all.

He still remembers the night they met so _clearly_. That once, Madara had fallen asleep with his knee hiked up to his chest, his bag sliding off his shoulder. Without thinking about it, Hashirama crossed the train car and took up the empty seat next to him- just in case, he reasoned. Better him than someone else. When Madara woke up, a stop or two before the end of the line, he looked at Hashirama calmly, smiled a little, and said ‘haven’t I seen you before somewhere?’

He had, as it turns out. They went to the same university- different colleges, but same university. Hashirama studied life sciences and Madara studied engineering; the campus was sparse to begin with, but the life science laboratories and engineering department were on opposite ends of the campus. The only way they would have been able to meet properly would have been in a freshman seminar, maybe at the awful coffee shop in the student center, out in the city on the weekends somewhere.

And speak of the devil, it’s Saturday now- there aren’t a lot of open seats in the train, so Hashirama opts for standing. Madara stands pressed against his side, holding his wool coat shut with one hand. Hashirama holds his bicep gently to keep him from swaying. 

“I feel so _old_ ,” Madara says suddenly. The train lurches a little. Hashirama gives him a quizzical look. 

“You’re not old,” he reassures him, “You’re just sick.” 

Madara rolls his eyes. He adjusts the metal bridge of his facemask, looking supremely annoyed. “That’s not what I meant,” he clears his throat, looks quickly over his shoulder. “I feel like I _look_ old,” he says, dropping his voice to a whisper, “I dress like an old guy.” 

Hashirama squeezes his bicep. “You’ve always dressed like an old guy, Madara. You’ve always acted like one too. _Grouchy_.”

Madara scoffs. 

“We can go shopping when you feel better, if you want,” Hashirama offers, squeezing his arm again, “But I like your old guy clothes. You wear them well.”

Madara buries his face in his elbow and coughs dryly. Unthinkingly, Hashirama lets go of his bicep and puts his arm around his shoulders instead, pulling him a little closer. 

“You know-” Madara coughs again, his eyes crinkling up at the corners a bit, “Maybe it’s my skin. I feel like my skin is abnormally dry. It looks ashy.” 

“You’re allowed to use my stuff,” Hashirama pouts, “I keep telling you, that one face cream with olive oil-”

“You look _good_ oily,” Madara huffs, “I look sickly.”

“Maybe you should stop smoking.”

“Maybe I will.”

“You always say that, and then-” 

The train lurches, and Madara stumbles a bit, searching for purchase at the hem of Hashirama’s sweater as it rolls to a stop. Hashirama laughs fondly and pats his shoulder, ushering Madara out of the train car and towards the stairs. 

“We missed the city,” Madara says sourly, “You know- the part of the ride when you can see the skyline for a few seconds.” 

Hashirama stops abruptly, his hand sliding down Madara’s arm and resting lightly on his wrist. “We can go a few more stops. Until the trains go above-ground again.” 

“We could,” Madara says, rolling his eyes, “But I thought you wanted to get me to a doctor.” 

“Oh-” Hashirama gives a breathless little laugh. Somebody in a safety-striped tracksuit clips his shoulder, somebody with their hair in high, pink ponytails gives him a dirty look- but all he can see is Madara, his gleaming eyes, and his pretty, dark hair sliding out of one of Hashirama’s hair ties.

“Right,” he says apologetically, “Right, Madara. That’s right. I’m sorry.”

“...You’re being weird.” 

“No, I know, I’m sorry-” Hashirama swallows, “I’m just-” _looking at you_ , he doesn’t say. That’s the sort of thing that he likes to save for Saturday mornings, the sort of thing that makes Madara’s eyes soften, that makes him laugh a little nervously. It’s not the sort of thing he wants to blurt out in the middle of a subway station crawling with half-drunk college students and adulterous businessmen. 

“Looking at me,” Madara supplies. Hashirama blinks at him. Before he can come up with some clever retort, Madara takes his hand and starts to drag him towards the stairs. 

Of course he’s looking at Madara. He’s the sort of beautiful it’s impossible to tear your eyes away from. 

  
  
  


It’s arid and cold- it never seems to rain enough in the city. By the time they get to Tobirama’s apartment, the back of Madara’s throat feels a little raw. 

He tugs his mask down, which earns him a chagrined look from Hashirama, and rubs his neck. 

“I just don’t want you to have bronchitis this year,” Hashirama mutters, looking down at his cell phone. Madara smiles- he likes the way Hashirama has to squint without his reading glasses.

“I think I’m alright,” he huffs, “I’m sick, but I don’t think it’s serious.” 

“Not _yet_!” Hashirama whines, “But if we don’t deal with it soon enough it might get worse.”

Madara rolls his eyes. He watches Hashirama bring his phone closer to his face and smiles fondly. Getting sick was never really a pleasant experience, but Madara has always rather enjoyed seeing Hashirama play nurse. 

_It had been particularly bad the winter before- Madara had stubbornly refused to go to a hospital and spent a week in bed, heaving and sweating and fiending for a cigarette all the while. Hashirama would come home from work with nicotine patches and takeout food and once, a carton of vanilla ice cream that he ate in a single sitting while Madara dozed off next to him._

_He remembers it clearly, even now. They’d dug up Madara’s old laptop and been shuffling through old videos of Izuna’s dance practices for hours- mostly unentertaining save for Izuna’s occasional cry of “Aniki, pay attention,” Madara’s curt little “ah, sorry”s, the one time he dropped the camera while Izuna was in the middle of an arabesque and the younger boy had screamed bloody murder and the two of them launched into a heated arguement about how even Izuna’s shitty dollar-store tripod was a sturdier videographer than Madara. Hashirama had abandoned the empty carton of ice cream on the floor and pulled Madara’s head into his lap._

_“You’re beautiful,” Hashirama had said quietly, “Sublimely beautiful.”_

_“Big words,” Madara murmured, “They’re unbecoming on you.”_

_Hashirama had practically laughed himself hoarse at that- and at some point, they had shifted so Madara’s head was resting at the center of his chest. He liked the way Hashirama’s laughter sounded like that, so loud that it rattled his ribcage and made his breath ragged._

_“You like me pretty and stupid,” Hashirama said. There was a sadness to it, the sort of sadness that said Hashirama wasn’t sure anybody would see him for who he really was- but Madara did. It was just that he was so exhausted that day._

_He rolled onto his elbows. It was grey outside, snow piling up on the window ledge and the curtains fluttering in the hot, dry air from the radiator. Hashirama had left the lamp in the corner on- the one he’d found on somebody’s curb a few weeks after they had moved in together and insisted he could fix right up and put in their bare bedroom. And now there was so much clutter that Madara wasn’t sure what to do with it all. Yellow light and fuzzy shadows cast behind little towers of books, blankets and laundry in little piles all over the floor- and Hashirama, who looked especially beautiful that afternoon._

_Madara kissed his chin._

_“I love you pretty and stupid, actually,” he’d said softly, “I love you a lot.”_

Madara closes his eyes and suppresses a shudder. 

He thinks about Hashirama’s hands on his hips, the little sweet nothings he’d murmur in Madara’s ear between shallow breaths, in those empty seconds where his hips stuttered every so often. Oh, yes- Madara _loved_ him pretty and stupid. 

“Madara?” Hashirama says, concern creeping into his voice. Madara jumps a little. “Sorry,” he says quickly, “I was distracted.” 

Hashirama touches his forehead very lightly. Madara shivers. 

“You feel warm,” he murmurs, “Oh, Madara, I’m so worried about you.” 

The lock on Tobirama’s door clicks. “Then you should take me to a real doctor,” Madara snorts, “I mean, really, Tobirama probably has-”

“- _an exam_ in the morning- _Anija,_ he better have a foot in the fucking grave for you to show up so late.” 

“I was going to say no idea how to treat bronchitis,” Madara says dully, pushing back the cuticle on his thumb with his fingernail, “But that works too.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Madara can see Hashirama blush- he’s so pretty when he blushes. Between that and the fever his body is trying poorly to stave off, he feels a little delirious. Hashirama sputters. 

“Just come inside,” Tobirama snaps, “And for the record, I do, theoretically, know how to treat bronchitis.” 

  
  
  


It takes Tobirama about three minutes to find his stethoscope and a diagnostics manual in his over-cluttered bedroom. By then, Madara is already dozing with his cheek against Hashirama’s arm. He’s toed his shoes off and pulled his knees up to his chest- something Hashirama thinks makes him look softer, younger, more vulnerable. 

Hashirama watches nervously as Tobirama slides his hand under the front of Madara’s sweater, adjusting his stethoscope with a grimace. 

“That doesn’t look comfortable-”

“Save it, anija,” Tobirama says, more exasperated than unkind, “I’m trying to listen.” 

Madara makes a soft, tired sound and crinkles his nose, shifting slightly. Hashirama bites his tongue to stifle an affectionate little laugh. 

“I don’t know why you don’t just take him to the urgent care when he gets sick,” Tobirama murmurs. He reaches around Madara’s shoulders and pulls him upright for a second- which earns him another soft, disgruntled sound- slipping his hand under the back of Madara’s sweater and carefully dragging the chestpiece along the backsides of his ribs. A beat of silence passes, and Tobirama grimaces. “You have insurance, and between the two of you, you can more than afford a visit here and there.” 

“It’s inconvenient,” Hashirama says matter-of-factly. 

“So is asking me to look at him,” Tobirama says dryly. He gets to his feet with a soft groan and crosses the room to the kitchen counter, thumbing through the first pages of the diagnostics manual. “I’m not officially a doctor yet, you know that?” 

“Of course I do,” Hashirama says, a little defensively. Madara shushes him- Hashirama strokes his hair apologetically. “If he were like- I don’t know, _deathly_ ill, of course we’d go.”

Tobirama is quiet for a moment, singularly focused on thumbing through the diagnostics manual. “Well-” he clears his throat, “I don’t think he is, but having bronchitis twice in a year isn’t a particularly good indicator of his long term health.”

Hashirama frowns. Madara shifts against him again. 

“It’s especially alarming because he’s so _young_ , anija,” Tobirama murmurs, “I don’t think there’s any irreparable damage to his lungs right now, but he should probably get chest films. See a specialist or something.” He studies the manual for a second longer and then sighs, slams it shut and sets it aside again. “Anija, I really don’t know what I’m doing.” 

“You do,” Hashirama says, swallowing dryly, “You’re so smart, Tobirama. I don’t know how you do any of this.” 

“No, no,” Tobirama says quickly, “No, don’t start, don’t get weepy. I’m not trying to be self-deprecating or anything. I’m just not sure what to tell you. He’s-” he pinches the bridge of his nose, “He’s fine. I mean- I’m not _that_ worried about it, but I’d keep an eye on him. He’s definitely congested, and given how sick he’s gotten in the past, I’d just be cautious. Maybe get him nicotine patches for your anniversary or something. The smoking isn’t helping.” 

Hashirama blinks. “Our- our what?”

Tobirama _sneers_ at him. “You’re _kidding_ ,” he says at an almost hysterical pitch, “Did you hit your fucking head on the way over? Your _anniversary_ this weekend.”

“Oh-” Hashirama covers his mouth, “Oh, _fuck_.” 

Madara groans. “Hashirama-” 

“Shhh,” Hashirama cooes, stroking at his hair, “Sorry, sorry, we’ll leave in a minute.” 

“Good,” Madara huffs. He crinkles his nose. “It smells like-” he yawns, and curls in on himself a little tighter, nuzzling his cheek against Hashirama’s bicep. 

Sometimes, Hashirama thinks fondly, dating Madara is like dating five or six different people at once. Because Madara is aggressive, playful, thoughtful, vulnerable. He’s a multitude of things- he passes through the world discarding mask after mask, and Hashirama loves him. He _loves_ Madara. 

He curls a little strand of Madara’s hair around his finger, leans down and kisses the top of his head. 

“It smells like… _bitch_ in here,” Madara finishes, with a tiny, self-satisfied smile. 

“Like-” Hashirama brings his fingers to his mouth, bites his first knuckle to stifle a laugh. He can feel Tobirama glowering at him from the kitchenette. “Like bitch.” 

“That’s what I said,” Madara says placidly, “Like bitch.” 

  
  
  


Madara doesn’t remember leaving Tobirama’s apartment, doesn’t remember walking down into the train station, collapsing into an open seat beside Hashirama and sleeping the whole way home. He only comes to properly when he’s sitting on the edge of their bed and Hashirama is peeling his sweater off for him, his fingers brushing lightly over his exposed sides. 

He feels a little disoriented. He thinks, distantly, that maybe he’s a little sicker than he thought. 

“Hashirama,” he says seriously. Hashirama tosses his sweater on the floor, braces his warm, broad hands against either of Madara’s hips. 

“Yeah?” 

Madara glances at the window. It’s snowing- raining, hailing, something. The world feels a little fuzzy around the edges. It’s been worse, _far_ worse- but that doesn’t mean he isn’t sick. He closes his eyes, tries to focus on the feeling of Hashirama’s hands on him, his warm breath fanning across his lips, little sections of his hair falling from behind his ears. 

“I- I don’t know-” Madara says simply, “I don’t know. I’m so _disoriented_.” 

Hashirama doesn’t laugh, doesn’t panic. Madara likes that, when it really matters, Hashirama can be so serene. Without a word, he gets to his feet, crosses behind Madara, and stretches out on their bed.

“You don’t have to know,” Hashirama says gently. He reaches out and pulls Madara against his chest, tucking his head beneath his chin. He kisses the crown of Madara’s head softly, and smiles. Madara clutches at his chest. He feels impossibly warm.

“Just rest,” Hashirama murmurs, “I’ll stay in bed with you all morning.”

“Scout’s honor?” Madara asks.

“Scout’s honor.” 

Madara doesn’t speak. The last thing he remembers before he falls asleep is Hashirama drawing the covers over his shoulders, and kissing his eyes. 

  
  
  


Sunday is particularly bad. Madara spends most of the day curled in on himself in their bed, hugging his knees to his chest and trying to stifle his cough while Hashirama rubs his back. 

In some ways, Madara is nice to take care of- Hashirama feels a little guilty for how thinking how pretty his eyes look when he’s deliriously tired or running a high fever- he softens up considerably when he’s sick for the most part, lets Hashirama dote on him. There are always little moments in the interim, of course, little moments where Madara’s cough gets particularly painful or his fever gets just a little too high where every few words out of his mouth are to the effect of “piss off, Hashirama”; “I wish you would just let me _die_ , Hashirama”. 

Madara has really always had a flair for the dramatic, hasn’t he? 

This time around, though, Madara is just… Hashirama isn’t sure how he’d describe it. Easy, maybe- Madara snuggles up against Hashirama in his sleep, nudges his laptop out of the way and puts his arms around his waist, making quiet little pleas to set aside his soil fertility reports and take a nap with him. It takes every last ounce of Hashirama’s self control not to give in to his groveling. 

He sleeps through the night on Sunday, wakes up Monday morning and immediately starts nagging Hashirama for breakfast. Hashirama is adamant about not letting him go back to the office until Wednesday- _just to be safe_ , he insists.

Hashirama still goes into the gardens a couple of times on Monday and Tuesday, mostly strolling the glass-paneled catwalk in the little rainforest, brainstorming what he could do to surprise Madara for their anniversary. 

Now there was, of course, the distinct possibility that Madara would beat him to the punch. Madara wasn’t exactly the most organized person in the world, but he was the type to call in dinner reservations a month in advance, the type to spontaneously book plane tickets or a hotel room and conveniently wait to tell Hashirama until the last possible second. 

And Hashirama loved that sort of careful, calculated spontaneity- that didn’t mean he didn’t want to take initiative for once. 

He comes home from the gardens on Tuesday afternoon and finds Madara at the kitchen counter, wearing Hashirama’s old sweatshirt from university and his reading glasses, his dark, curly hair held back from his face in a tight, high ponytail. He barely blinks when Hashirama comes in, his focus singularly on the spread of paperwork on the counter in front of him. 

“I don’t feel like cooking tonight,” Madara mutters, dogearring a paper spreadsheet. 

Hashirama huffs out a little laugh. He hangs his jacket on the hook by their front door and steps out of his shoes, immediately crossing the room to put his arms around Madara’s neck. 

Madara swats at him halfheartedly. 

“You’re so pretty,” Hashirama murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss under his jaw.

“I’m trying to work,” Madara huffs. 

Hashirama pretends not to hear him. He grips the back of the stool Madara is sitting on and jerks him backwards, earning him a half-yelp in protest. He circles around and maneuvers himself so he’s sitting on Madara’s knees, his back resting against the edge of the counter, and drapes his arms around his shoulders. Madara gives him a supremely annoyed look. 

“I’m _trying_ to work, Hashirama.” 

“We could skip dinner tonight,” Hashirama says, smiling suggestively, “We could go straight to dessert.” 

“You’re _filthy_.” 

Hashirama squawks in surprise when Madara falls forward against his chest, wrapping his arms around his waist. “I don’t feel like going to work tomorrow, either,” Madara complains, “I don’t feel like doing anything.” 

“Not even me?”

“Not even you,” Madara says softly, “Not tonight.” 

Hashirama laughs nervously, shifting slightly so more of his weight is against the counter to keep them from tipping backwards. He strokes Madara’s hair, reveling in the soft, appreciative noises he makes. 

“Still sick?” 

“Tired,” Madara corrects, “Distracted. I don’t know. It’s been so dreary lately, I don’t think it’s making me feel much better.”

Hashirama understands. Winters were particularly difficult for Madara- before they had moved in together, winters meant Izuna at dance practice until all hours of the night. Madara had school to keep him busy, sure, but coming home each evening to the empty flat they shared, eating alone, trying not to worry about Izuna making his commute, by himself, in the city… the anxiety never seemed to go away. Even now, Madara gets antsy when he doesn’t hear from Izuna before he turns in for the night. He stays up texting Izuna’s roommates or his teachers when he doesn’t respond- it’s endearing, in a way, but Hashirama feels terribly, terribly sad for him. 

Then there’s the added factor of the cold- Madara didn’t deal with it well. Aside from getting sick easily, it made him cranky. He smoked more, despite Hashirama wanting so badly for him to quit, and then got headaches from the withdrawal; Madara always insisted it was the barometric pressure, but Hashirama knew better. He was much smarter than Madara liked to give him credit for. 

“I forgot to make reservations,” Madara says, startling Hashirama out of his thoughts. Hashirama sits back slightly and cocks his head to the side. 

“Reservations?” 

Madara squeezes his waist. “For dinner. For our anniversary.” 

“Oh,” Hashirama laughs gently, “Oh, Madara, it’s alright.” 

“It’s not,” Madara huffs, “I feel irresponsible- I mean, it’s not like I can’t get my work done or anything, it just…” He sighs deeply and squeezes Hashirama’s waist again. Hashirama strokes his hair. 

“It’s a lot,” Hashirama murmurs, “I mean, you know- you’ve been sick, you’re overworked, you’re worried about Izuna-”

“Did you know that he called me the other day talking about his troupe going on a _world tour_ ?” Madara asks, exasperated, “A _world tour._ ”

“That’s wonderful-”

“And I know that I should be excited for him. I know I _should,_ but all I can think about is how I’m not going to see him for six odd months at a time now. I _miss_ him, Hashirama-” Madara draws a shuddering breath, “It’s pathetic, and it’s stupid, and it’s-” 

Hashirama makes a mental note to text Izuna later and congratulate him- but he doesn’t say anything. He just sits back a little, adjusts his weight, and holds Madara’s head against his chest. 

Sometimes, he wishes Madara would cry. Hashirama thinks that Madara probably doesn’t cry enough- he bottles everything up like he’s scared one day he’ll fall apart and nobody’s going to be around to pick up the pieces, and Hashirama understands. He really does.

  
  


Hashirama is waiting for him in the lobby when he finishes work on Friday. 

He has a horrifically ugly pink weekender over his shoulder, and he’s wearing an atrocious cream-colored sweater and a pair of olive colored sweatpants, mitch matched socks and-

“Are those _clogs_?” Madara asks indignantly. 

Hashirama pouts. “They’re my work shoes.”

Madara can’t help the smile that creeps onto his face. “You look a mess.” 

“I was in a rush,” Hashirama whines. He pouts for a few more second and then opens his arms expectantly, opening and closing his fingers. Madara rolls his eyes, but goes anyways- at the end of the day, he could give a shit who sees Hashirama dote on him like this. 

When they get outside, Hashirama offers Madara his hand and tells him to close his eyes. Madara gives him a skeptical look. 

“Are we going somewhere?”

“Not far,” Hashirama promises, “Don’t worry, I haven’t planned some elaborate weekend trip for us. I don’t want to put the stress of travelling on you.” 

Madara nods at the weekender slung over his shoulder. “What’s in the bag, then?” 

“Receipts,” Hashirama says vaguely, “Clean sweatpants for you. Soap.”

Madara narrows his eyes. “You’re not taking me to a trampoline park, are you?” 

“No,” Hashirama says quickly- a little too quickly. 

“Bathhouse?” 

“ _Madara_ ,” Hashirama groans, “Just take my hand.”

And Madara does- at the end of the day, he doesn’t think he could ever come up with a good reason not to.

“Close your eyes!” Hashirama repeats, and Madara does. 

They start down the sidewalk in the direction of the nearest train station, Hashirama pausing every few steps, allowing Madara to catch up. Even with his eyes closed, he can clearly picture the little things about the city- the tiny metal food carts kitty-corner to each other, the pawn shop and the florists that flank the entrance to his building, the bright, shock-yellow of the taxi cabs, the flurry of rush hour as it dies down. 

Hashirama had always hinted at maybe getting a house in the suburbs, closer to the country. Madara isn’t sure if he’d do very well there. 

He squeezes Hashirama’s hand. Hashirama passes behind him and boxes him in against the railing that leads down into the train station. “Keep your eyes closed,” he says gently. Madara scoffs. 

“I know where we are, Hashirama.” 

“That’s not the point,” Hashirama says defiantly.

“Do you want me to fall down the stairs?” 

Hashirama places his hand at the small of Madara’s back and pushes him forward gently. “You won’t,” he says sternly, “I promise. Just keep your eyes closed.” 

Madara crinkles his nose. They start down the stairs carefully- Madara gripping the railing and Hashirama pressing against him to keep him upright. Madara huffs out a little laugh. Hashirama has always loved making a spectacle of himself. 

He recalls the night they met again, taking their train to the end of the line. If Madara was good at anything, it was overworking himself. He didn’t used to fall asleep on the train- he didn’t like how vulnerable it left him feeling when he woke up, how disoriented it made him- but if he hadn’t, just the once, it’s very likely that he never would have met Hashirama. 

He remembers waking up, a little startled, with his head on Hashirama’s shoulder. He’d leaned over in his sleep, apparently- and Hashirama was still, incredibly still, the sort of still you keep when you don’t want to startle away a wild animal. His hair was down that night, Madara remembers fondly, tucked haphazardly behind his ears and spilling over his shoulders onto the open pages of the paperback he had folded open in his lap. 

He had a peculiar way of holding books open, always in such a way that their spines got damaged, even the hardcovers. It was probably one of his few faults. 

There’s sitting room on the train, and Madara is grateful for it. He falls into the seat beside Hashirama- misjudging the distance a bit and landing on his thigh, then sliding off and leaning against him. 

“Ow,” Hashirama whines. 

“You wanted me to keep my eyes closed,” Madara says nonchalantly. 

The train stutters a bit, and Madara instinctively tightens his fingers around Hashirama’s. 

Hashirama laughs a little, and squeezes right back. “Motion sick?” 

“Maybe a little,” Madara says sheepishly, “What are the receipts for?” 

Hashirama laughs again. “I guess there’s no harm in telling you now. Well-” he clears his throat, “I got us new bedsheets, and I found this deco headboard at the flea market the other day-” 

“Where did you hide a _headboard_?”

“At work,” Hashirama says nonchalantly, “And then I got you new sweatpants. Hip ones. Cool ones. You know, like the kids are wearing. And then- ah.” He squeezes Madara’s fingers again, presses a light kiss to his temple. “I sprung for vouchers.”

“Vouchers?” 

“Yeah,” Hashirama murmurs, “From Izuna’s company. And I put aside enough money for airfare and a hotel whenever- or wherever you want to see him.”

“Oh,” Madara says breathlessly, “Hashirama-”

“But I’m gonna have to work Sundays for a little while. Mostly out of principle-” 

Madara kisses him sweetly, his hands blindly finding their way up to his face. Hashirama makes a startled sound, and laughs against his lips, resting his hands gently over Madara’s wrists. 

Their first kiss had been on the train, too. They’d gone out dancing for their third date- a misadventure that ended in Madara throwing out his back and Hashirama emptying a bottle of liquor onto the bar counter trying to show off. Madara, who had been a little tipsy himself at that point, cleaned him up with paper towel and water in the men’s room. 

Hashirama had still looked so _pretty_ \- listing to the side against the sink, smiling, his flushed skin stained green by the colored lights in the bathroom- but Madara didn’t dare take advantage.

On the train, Hashirama had collapsed against his shoulder, their fingers laced tightly together. It was an odd hour- the car was mostly empty, the other commuters buried in their cell phones and paperbacks, and Hashirama brought his hands up to Madara’s face and kissed him. 

And things moved so quickly after that- they missed their stops, had to circle back around, ended up in Hashirama’s on-campus apartment, fallen asleep half naked on the mattress on his floor, their bodies sticky with alcohol and sweat and crushing the corners of Hashirama’s open biology textbook, half-tucked under his pillow.

Madara withdraws slightly, and smiles. 

“You’ve been so… I don’t know,” Hashirama murmurs, “Not yourself lately.” 

“I thought I was always grouchy.” 

“Grouchy, sure,” Hashirama laughs, “But not- I don’t know...heartsick.”

“Heartsick?” Madara asks.

“Mmh,” Hashirama kisses him again, “Oh- _and_ I bought you nicotine patches-”

“Not this shit again-”

“I mean it, Madara-” Hashirama pouts, “I don’t think your smoking-” 

“I haven’t-” Madara heaves a sigh. He sits back slightly, his hand still folded in Hashirama’s and resting on his knee. “I haven’t had a cigarette in almost a week.” 

Hashirama is quiet for a moment. The train screeches to a halt. Silently, Madara curses himself for not counting the stops- he still has no idea where they’re going, but Hashirama doesn’t move to get off. 

“Maybe the withdrawal is making you feel sick,” he offers. The doors slide shut again with a hiss. 

“I think it’s a little bit of everything,” Madara admits. He squeezes Hashirama’s fingers again. “But you’ve done such a remarkable job at loving me lately.” 

Hashirama laughs at that. “What,” he says sweetly, “like it’s hard?” 

  
  
  
  


He finally lets Madara open his eyes when they’re at the center of the gardens, electric candles glowing in neat crescents around the pile of their bedsheets and pillows. 

“Ah,” Madara says, a little bewildered, “So that’s why you bought new sheets.”

“I can return-” 

“No,” Madara says quickly, “No, it’s…” 

He trails off, tilting his chin up to look through the skylights. 

Even with the skylights fogged up from the humidifiers, the sky comes through clearly. It’s hard to see the stars with all the light pollution- but the moon is half full, bright and passing behind the clouds, and then out again. 

Madara is _beautiful_ , Hashirama thinks. A little rough around the edges sometimes, sure- really, who isn’t? When Madara smiles, everything seems to soften up, just a little. Everything is easier to do. 

“It’s so pretty,” Madara says absently, his hands still tucked in his pockets, his chin still tilted up a little. Hashirama hums affirmatively. 

“Gorgeous, yeah,” he murmurs. 

Madara looks back at him, smiling gently. “You should bring me here more often.” 

“You come here all the time,” Hashirama scoffs, “You eat lunch here with me three times a week, at _least._ ” 

Madara laughs- he has such a beautiful laugh. Hashirama remembers hearing it for the first time, when he’d walked Madara to a convenience shop the night they’d met, bought them coffees and paid only in change. 

It hadn’t been an unkind laugh. It was… bright. Amused. _Madara_. 

“I mean when it’s quiet like this,” Madara says reverently, “God, Hashirama, it’s _beautiful_.”

“I take it this means you’re not mad about the bedsheets?” 

“No,” Madara laughs, “No, not at all.”

  
  


Hashirama makes a spectacular tour guide. 

Madara isn't entirely sure if that's a good thing- but he likes his enthusiasm more than he cares to admit, the way he gestures broadly and tosses his hair, glancing behind him every so often as they stroll along the catwalk overlooking the indoor portion of the gardens, afraid he might trip. 

He talks to Madara like he's afraid he'll miss something, like Madara doesn't come and eat lunch with him every week, like he'll suddenly stop being awed by all of the bright reds and oranges of the flowers, the broad leaves of all the spiny palms, the sheer height of some of the trees in the greenhouse. To Hashirama, everything seems _new_.

And he treats Madara like he's new- like he's undamaged. Every so often he stops, takes Madara's hands in his, and asks if he has any questions, asks if there's anything in particular he wants to see, wants to know more about. Madara just casts his gaze out over the gardens, over the city glowing yellow against the night sky, over the jagged rows of apartment buildings- he thinks about how their apartment might look from a distance like this, might even resemble a home. 

"Madara," Hashirama will call, "Madara, what are you looking at?" 

_You_ , Madara always wants to say, _everything_. 

Madara is unbelievably easy to impress, Hashirama thinks. 

It isn't that he's particularly naive or anything- quite the opposite, in fact- but Madara is the first person that Hashirama thinks has treated him with even an iota of respect. He has this unique knack for seeing through his unrelenting optimism to the person he really is- whoever that may be. He doesn't want to find out with anybody's guidance but Madara's. 

Presently, he's reaching over one of the glass barriers and running his fingers along the edge of a taro plant. His expression is softer than usual- open, curious. Hashirama isn't sure if Madara is humoring him or if he's genuinely amazed by the size of the plants he's admiring. At the end of the day, he doesn't care.

_He remembers when Madara had visited him at the gardens for the first time. It was a Saturday afternoon, and Madara looked spectacularly out of place amongst the schoolchildren and their parents and the spattering of elderly couples, blending in poorly in his cream-colored sweater against the bright backdrop of taro and hibiscus flowers._

_They'd found themselves in a quiet corner of the gardens, Hashirama's hand braced against the small of Madara's back. Madara had gone shock still for a moment- and then raised his hand to Hashirama, a tiny, bright blue butterfly resting lightly on the knuckle of his index finger._

_That was when he had known- when Hashirama saw the unfeigned gentleness in his face, the softness, the sweetness that he so loved about Madara- how deeply Madara loved him_. 

At the end of the day, Madara _loves_ having Hashirama on top.

He’s beautiful like this- backlit by the moonlight, holding his pretty hair back from his face, Madara’s name on his lips. 

Madara touches his hip gently and Hashirama outright moans, bringing his free hand from Madara’s chest to cover his mouth. 

“Oh,” he gasps, “ _Madara_ -”

Madara closes his eyes, trails his hands down Hashirama’s thighs. He doesn’t know when Hashirama finds the time to work out between work and chores and all the reading he does, but he’s in such _incredible_ shape. If he weren’t such a good botanist, Madara thinks he might have a storied career as a supermodel.

Madara freezes. “Wait-” he breathes, “Hashirama.”

Hashirama flinches, slouches forward and braces his hands on Madara’s chest, splaying his fingers apart to keep steady. His hair falls in front of his face, and he stifles a wounded sound. “Oh. What is it?” 

“Did you turn the security cameras off?”

“The-” Hashirama blinks at him, “the what- oh _._ _Oh._ ”

Hashirama shifts his weight slightly, making to get up when Madara seizes his wrist. “Wait, wait, we can deal with that in a minute,” he says breathlessly, “Hashirama, come back down here.” 

“What,” Hashirama scoffs, “You can take a smoke break while I go and check the security office.” 

“Don’t tempt me,” Madara huffs. 

He puts his arms around Hashirama’s waist, anchoring him firmly in place. Hashirama makes a strangled sound. 

“I’m quitting for good this time,” Madara says seriously, “I mean it.” 

Hashirama laughs gently. He leans forward and kisses his cheek, bracing his hands on either side of Madara’s head. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” 

Evidently, he doesn’t see much- not for the next thirty seconds or so. Just Madara, and then stars. 

**Author's Note:**

> if i wrote a s*x scene. i dont write it because i did. no i didnt <33


End file.
